


count for me

by astarisms



Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, but tread lightly because everything blurs together now, but you dont need to read that one to read this one, but you should bc it slaps, dara wants to give his wife all the orgasms so by golly he will, i dont think there are any eog spoilers in here, if i drop one here or there i dont really notice rip, just sayin, theres a reference to set fire to the rain in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26498641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astarisms/pseuds/astarisms
Summary: dara is eager to prove a point, and though nahri won't say as much aloud, she is eager for him to prove it.
Relationships: Darayavahoush e-Afshin/Nahri e-Nahid
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	count for me

**Author's Note:**

> i know i said it'd be a cold day in hell before i ever wrote dara in this position, but the apocalypse is nigh and climate change is probably ensuring hell gets a little snow this year, so here you go.

_“I wager that I can make you lose count.”_

_“Oh? Do you think so, you arrogant man?”_

_His smile was wicked. “I know so.”_

Nahri had known, during that exchange, that Dara would not make a wager if he was not entirely confident he could win. She had known, then, that there was the very real possibility that he could deliver on it, and that the chances of her being the one to emerge victorious were abysmally low.

But he is in possession of an excess of faith in himself, and deserves to be knocked down a peg or two.

Even if it is short-lived, because he is intimately familiar with all the spots that make her melt, and it quickly proves an extremely difficult task to keep up the train of thought necessary to antagonize the man promising too many orgasms to keep track of. And now, as he lavishes attention on her neck, skimming his fingertips under her tunic, leaving a burning trail in his wake, Nahri already feels her awareness slipping in a haze of heat and pleasure.

Creator help her, he’s barely touched her yet, but he knows all too well about the place where her throat and shoulder meet, the way that it could bring her to her knees, and he was taking advantage of it. 

_Infuriating, arrogant, horrible man_ , she thinks, even as she hears herself moan, a little, barely-there sound that she catches between her teeth before it’s even all the way out. Dara pauses, his hands and lips stilling, and then she feels him smile, and she cannot help the way even that little action has her arousal coiling tighter, hotter in her belly.

And then he continues down, and she has the distinct impression that when he’s done, there won’t be a single inch of her left untouched, untasted by him, and her breath comes a bit faster at the thought, her fingers tightening in his hair. Oh, God, he is going to ruin her, and she is just going to _let him_.

His lips brush her collarbones, with so much intention and reverence that she finds herself arching up, even though those spots had never been particularly arousing for her before. He presses a kiss to the center of her chest, above her tunic, and then he eases up, pulling her with him. Her cheeks flushed, her breathing irregular, nose to nose with him, she discovers she isn’t quite so put-off by the thought of losing anymore. She reaches out, taking his face in her hands, and he watches her with those bright eyes, tracking her every moment like a predator waiting to pounce on its prey. 

By the Most High, she could not wait for him to devour her. 

She kisses him, and then his hands are beneath her tunic again, drawing it up until they have to break away once more, and she releases him so she can yank it over her head. And then she’s leaning back until she hits soft cushions and woven quilts, pulling him down with her. She wraps her arms around his neck, threading her fingers back through his hair, and her legs around his waist, trying to bring his hips against hers. 

And though that was normally a successful endeavor, normally he let her strength overpower his, tonight is different, because he does not budge.

“Dara,” she protests, and she feels his laughter more than she hears it, against her chest. He reaches up, pulling her hands carefully from his hair and threading their fingers together, before he pins hers by her head. She inhales sharply, the rush of warmth between her thighs betraying her. The first time he’d done so had been a bit of a pleasant shock, one she didn’t think either of them had expected, but she would be lying if she said she hadn’t gotten a little thrill out of being at his mercy for once.

“I know you are lacking in many, but patience is perhaps one of the more valuable virtues one should possess, my thief,” he teases, and she scoffs indignantly.

“You’re one to talk, you hot-headed, short-fused, irritable...” She trails off, because he is at her throat again and she can’t think when he’s kissing her like that. The pressure of his weight over her and his lips and tongue on her skin are making her lightheaded, and she knows he knows the effect he has on her because he doubles his efforts, and she gasps when the light kisses become hickies, though they’re both aware the bruises will fade before they even have time to bloom.

She revels in that heady pleasure, her fingers tightening around his, and he continues his way down her chest. But then he pauses at the slope of her breasts, and Nahri groans, her back arching.

“By all means, keep stopping,” she says, forcing a flippancy she doesn’t feel, “we’ll be here all night and I’ll have a very easy time keeping count at zero.” But her sharp tongue does not have the intended _hurry the fuck up_ effect she hopes for. Instead he laughs—like he always does, like he always has, though his entirely uncalled for amusement will not hinder attempts in the future, either—and raises his head, which is exactly the opposite of what she had wanted and therefore what she should’ve expected before she even spoke.

“Zero?” he asks, arching a brow at her, his eyes bright with amusement, and she finds herself utterly endeared by it, even if she won’t admit it.

 _‘Utterly endeared by_ ’, she repeats in her head with the faintest traces of disbelief. _By the Most High, is this who I’ve become?_

“I must admit, I am wondering which instance it was when I last left you unsatisfied, since it seems to have left such an impression on you.”

 _None,_ she thinks instantly, because it’s true, because there’s never once been an occasion where Dara hasn’t ensured her pleasure, even above his own, and usually more than once. But there’s a note in his voice she doesn’t like, one that makes her regret opening her mouth to begin with, one that tells her he’s going to make her eat her words. 

She ignores the shiver that runs down her spine, the one that tells her that she’s lying to herself and she very much cannot wait to do just that.

“Well, wife?” he asks, in that same arrogant, knowing tone that she hates to love. He lowers his head back down when she doesn’t answer, to her ear, and her breath catches when he whispers, “it cannot have been the other day, in the stables.”

 _Oh, fuck_. She clenches, emptily, because as if the weight and heat and brush of him over every part of her wasn’t enough to make her blood boil, now she is remembering that day, where she’d gone to see him in the stables and they’d ended up tossing in the hay in the stables like a couple of infatuated country teenagers. He had made her come three times, each one a vivid burst of heat and ecstasy in her memory.

He returns to her breast, grazing the side with sharp teeth, and she bites her lip against her moan because now he’s playing dirty and even if he _is_ winning, he doesn’t need to know. 

_Stupid, smug, arrogant bastard—_

“Nor could it have been last week, before dinner.” Her stomach twists, and she wishes now she had not wrapped her legs around him so hastily, so that she could press her thighs together and stop the rush of arousal or relieve the ache between them or _something_ , because that day, too, she remembers all too well. They had been talking while he cooked, Nahri watching and stealing bites from beside him, and though she couldn’t remember what turn in conversation had prompted her dirty joke, the way his eyes had darkened and the two orgasms he’d given her on the counter before they’d eaten their (burned) dinner were very well preserved.

“Nor could it have been before that, in the garden.” Nahri feels his eyes on her, but refuses to meet them, tipping her head back in hopes of hiding her face from him. She can feel the heat well enough to know she’s flushed, down to her chest, with the memory of the garden— _the fucking garden in the rain where he’d picked her up and fucked her against her stone wall—_ but she hopes that, maybe, he is much too pleased with himself to notice in his ego. “Red looks good on you, my love.” 

_Fuck_.

His lips close around one peaked nipple, teeth and tongue teasing the hardened bud, and she bites her lip so hard against her moan that she tastes the coppery burst of blood before the skin knits itself back together. She feels him smile, kissing across her chest to give the same treatment to the other breast.

And then, with a faint, out-of-body kind of horror, she feels the tells of an orgasm welling, the imagery he’d put in her head along with the agonizing, purposeful slowness with which he was making his way across her body drawing one out of her prematurely. Her back arches again, her nails cutting into the backs of his hands as her vision blurs, and this time, she is unable to hold back the ragged moan that forces its way out.

She hits the bed again, breathing hard, though the embarrassment of coming so quickly is already stealing her high. She keeps her eyes closed, not ready to meet that smug, self-satisfied expression yet, but she feels his lips brushing her ear, her jaw, her cheek, featherlight. 

_Maybe this is okay_ , she thinks, turning her head for him, melting into the caresses.

But then there’s his voice, asking, “already? Truly?” and sounding disgustingly delighted with himself, and she takes it back immediately, furious at herself. “I have barely touched you.”

Nahri opens her eyes, slowly, and tries to give him her fiercest, most cutting glare, but it is neither very fierce nor cutting with the remaining vestiges of ecstasy trickling down her spine. His expression is even worse than she imagined, that easy, arrogant knowing, and it does little to help her arousal. Creator forgive her, but he is the most sinfully beautiful man, and though she knows part of it is due to the curse that had bound him for centuries, the ease and confidence with which he carries himself is another level of attractive that no curse could manifest.

“Ya, habibi, the clock is ticking and you’ve only managed one,” she says, clucking her tongue, though her efforts to redirect are lost on her husband, who only grins down at her.

“Aye. I am just wondering how many I can give you without even venturing below your waist, _habibti_.”

Nahri scowls at him, the thought of him prolonging his descent to where she wants him so desperately making her ache even more vehemently, but he laughs, leaning in to kiss the sour twist off her lips. Then he shifts down, pressing a kiss to her sternum, right between her breasts, and her breath hitches. He untangles their fingers as he works his way lower, and she flexes hers before promptly burying them in his hair. She feels him smile again, against her stomach, and as if her insides know he’s right there, they begin to flutter wildly. 

She lets her head fall back against the pillows, resigning herself to the fact that this was her fate, that she was doomed to experience the mental endearments and butterflies and flushed cheeks for the rest of her life, like a girl with a crush, despite the fact that she is a woman twice married.

He kisses above her navel, and her skin prickles with anticipation, with the knowledge that he is so close. She resists the urge to use the hands in his hair to guide him to where she needs him, her fingers flexing around the silky strands when his lips skim her hip, the outside of her thigh, working his way inward. Her breath hitches, and she bites her lip again in preparation, ready to trap whatever noises he attempts to draw out of her and swallow them back down out of spite.

And then he changes course again, moving further down her thigh, and her jaw drops with a groan of disappointment. His fingers are light on her skin when he draws her leg up, and she feels his laughter at her expense in the crease at the back of her knee.

“Patience, wife,” he reminds her lightly, and she’s torn between wanting to shake him and kiss him. Languidly, he continues down her calf, as if he’s got all the time in the world, and though part of her is desperate for him to hurry it along, there’s another part that trembles with all this preamble, each kiss along her body more scorching than the last, and the effect lingers; she feels that slow, spreading burn in the tips of her fingers and toes, in every follicle of hair, and it makes her lightheaded.

When he skips to the other leg, working his way back up, her mouth goes dry, half a plea on the tip of her tongue, and when she feels his tongue at the crease of her knee again she presses her thighs together in an attempt to relieve some of the ache he’s caused. He looks up at her with those bright eyes, holding her gaze as he wraps his fingers around both of her calves and pries her open for him again. She whimpers, a soft, pathetic sound, and Dara exhales noisily in response.

“That is cheating,” he chides, though she can hear the effect this is having on him, too, the way it resonates in his voice. It rolls through her, deepening that molten feeling low in her belly.

“If you got a move on, perhaps I wouldn’t feel the need to cheat,” she retorts, breathlessly, her head swimming with the smell of him all around her, the taste of him lingering on her tongue, the feel of his attentions lingering on her skin and the heavy weight of him between her legs. 

“As you wish.” And yet despite the words, he picks up exactly where he’d left off, at her knee. He eases her leg over his shoulder as he makes his way up again, his lips tracing the inside of her thigh with such purposeful intent it drives her right back to the edge. There’s a brief moment when he reaches the top, where he pauses and she bites her tongue against the plea that rises in her throat, her heart hammering in her chest.

And then his fingers are on her, so lightly she might have imagined it if not for the jolt that courses up her spine at the touch. He slides one over her slit, and she shivers, tightening her fingers in his hair and tugging insistently. It must work, because she feels him spread her folds, and then there’s his tongue, and her vision fractures.

There’s no more of the painful, unhurried way he’d explored every inch of her, though he’s no less deliberate in his actions, every single movement designed to make her fall apart. He tastes her in long strokes, teasing her entrance then ending at her clit, groaning against her, and she feels herself unraveling at an alarming rate.

And then it’s all white light and searing heat, and she is lost again.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she swears brokenly on a moan, her back arching, her nails biting into his scalp when he dips his tongue inside. Dara pauses, looking up at her.

“Such vulgarity does not befit a woman of your station,” he teases after a moment, when the blood rushing through her ears quiets, though the effect nearly lost in the low, gravelly tone his own arousal gives him. Nahri makes a breathless noise that is part scoff, part laugh, part protest that he’d stopped using his mouth for more important things. 

“You want to speak to me of vulgarity with your head between my thighs, Afshin?” she manages, albeit a bit hoarsely, and he huffs, a sound that might be a laugh or a concession or both. “Are we still playing this game of yours, or can I say I’ve won and we both move on?”

He does laugh then, loudly, and she is still on too much of a high to cope with the things his laughter does to her, the way it makes her want to take him by the shoulders and have her own way with him, or the way it makes her want to capture the sound in a jar for it to warm her for the rest of her life. By the Most High, she doesn’t ever think she’ll entirely get over the sentimental, blushing fool her love for him turns her into sometimes. 

“We are not yet done, Banu Nahida. Though I have a request before we continue.”

“Making demands of me now?” she asks, with a haughtiness her ancestors might’ve been proud of. “And here I thought I was to be lavished upon.” But Dara only smiles, and lowers his head again. He presses a kiss to the crease of her thigh, and all traces of faux-grandeur and imperialism fall away at the promise of _more_.

“Count for me,” is all he says, in that low, rough tone, and she feels the thrill of the words run up her spine.

“Two,” she murmurs, and then his tongue is inside of her, and she gasps, nearly curling in on herself. Each shallow thrust makes her wild, and her hips begin to rise of their own accord to meet them until he takes one of her hands, threading their fingers together again, and holds them over her stomach, pinning her in place. She moans, her head falling back against the pillows, and with his free hand he eases her thighs wider, opening her up further for him. Her back arches, and already she feels it again, the aching promise of release, threatening to unravel her piece by piece.

His thumb brushes her clit, working the sensitive bud in increasingly firm strokes, and then her climax rushes up over her, drowning her, and she keens at the force of it. Her thighs close around his ears, despite the hold he has on them, but he doesn’t stop. There are no more of the teasing breaks, no more pauses to let her catch her breath and reorient herself—there is only light and heat and his tongue on her clit now, drawing out her orgasm, hurtling her towards the next.

“Three,” she chokes, remembering herself just enough to force the mangled word out, but she feels his laughter against her clit and the press of two fingers at her entrance, and she goes blissfully, mind-numbingly blank. 

His thrusts are shallow at first, easing his fingers in knuckle by knuckle, but she can’t form a coherent thought to complain. She twists under his hold in protest of such exquisite torture, but before she can get far, he pushes them all the way in, curling them to hit the spot inside of her that makes her break. 

And she does break, crying out raggedly, her fingers tightening in his hair, in his hand, to the point of pain. She’s dizzy with ecstasy, drunk on it, and still she manages, “four.”

But then he doubles his efforts, adding another finger, and time disappears in a blur of stars and molten, electric heat and green eyes. There’s a moment where everything goes black instead of white, where there’s only silence instead of the roar of blood in her ears, and then everything comes back in a deafening, blinding rush of sound and light and sensation and it’s _too much_. 

She sobs, pleading, though whether it’s to beg him to stop or keep going, she can’t tell. But then he’s above her, and she is on fire, still trembling with the last vestiges of ecstasy. Her body hums, hypersensitive to every touch, and she shudders when he brushes her damp, sweat-soaked curls from her face, looking down at her with some strange cross between tender amusement and concern.

“Nahri,” he murmurs, and it takes a long moment for him to come into focus, “are you alright?” 

She doesn’t answer right away, not quite having regained the ability to speak yet, and instead she fumbles for his hand. He slips it into hers, and she squeezes to tell him _I’m fine, just give me a minute_ , before letting her eyes drift close again and taking the time she needs to compose herself. The bed shifts beneath her, and his warmth retreats with him; she wants to protest, wants to reach out and pull him back to her, but her throat feels as rough as sandpaper and her arms as heavy as lead, so she does neither, instead focusing on regulating her heartbeat and evening out her breathing and stopping her limbs from trembling. 

The bed shifts again, one burning arm sliding beneath her and shifting her until she’s propped up on the pillows. She opens her eyes to watch him, tracing the crease in his brow and the quirk of his mouth. He meets her gaze when he’s satisfied with her position, and then holds up a cup of water, pressing it to her lips.

“Drink,” he instructs, and she has to repress her smile to do so, but she drains the cup. He gets up, refills it, and returns, doing the same. 

“I could get used to this,” Nahri sighs when she finishes that one, albeit a bit hoarsely. He laughs quietly, setting the cup aside and picking up a damp rag. She hears it sizzle a bit as he warms it in his hands, then wipes the sweat from her brow with a tenderness that makes her breath catch. “You shouldn’t do such things, Afshin. If you spoil me too much, I might start expecting this treatment every time.”

His eyes dance as he meets hers again, running the cloth down her neck, over her collarbones.

“You are already spoiled rotten, wicked woman,” he teases, taking her hand again and lifting her fingers to his lips. “It is my pleasure to care for you.”

She feels warm in a different way at the words, because still, even so many years later, it is difficult not to remember that once, she was all she had. She had cared for herself at the expense of everyone else, because there was no one else to do it for her.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

His hands are gentle upon her skin, wiping the sweat from her chest and the stickiness from between her thighs, leaving the occasional kiss on the center of her chest, on top of her knee. Creator help her but she loves this man and the way he loves her.

“So?” he asks, casually, and the illusion shatters and she narrows her eyes at him.

“So what?” she returns cautiously, and the smile teasing his lips is already victorious.

“What’s the final count, wife?” 

For a moment, her mind goes blank. Then she tries to recall them in order, because she can’t remember what number she stopped counting at, only that there was a point where she had not been able to think at all.

“Fou—…” she starts, then catches sight of his expression and cuts herself off. He raises a brow expectantly as he sets the cloth aside. “Five,” she concludes confidently, even though that’s an absurd number, because three is usually the point where she finds herself good and done. He’d given her four before, just once, and she remembers the pleasure being so overwhelming it had _hurt_. Much like the sensation she was currently recovering from, though she regrets absolutely nothing.

His grin widens triumphantly, and she amends that conclusion in her head accordingly—absolutely nothing, except that she’d lost count.

“How many, then?”

“I do not know. I was otherwise engaged,” he says, his voice dipping a bit lower, his eyes brightening, and she flushes again. “I asked _you_ to keep count. I only know that you are making that number up, which means you could not.”

“Fine,” she admits, throwing her hands up, having regained a bit of her range of motion. “I lost count. _You_ try staying coherent after that many orgasms.” 

“I am certain I could not. It is lucky I am only capable of the one.” She snorts, and his smile turns tender and indulgent again, his thumb smoothing over the back of her knuckles. But then something occurs to her, and she pushes herself higher, sitting up a little straighter.

“Speaking of… Do you need some help with that?” she asks, nodding towards his lap, already reaching for him. He catches her wrist, staying her hand.

“You are exhausted. Do not worry about me.”

“But—”

“I can take care of it, my love. You can barely sit up.” 

“You’re gonna take care of it?” she repeats slowly, a wicked glint in her eyes, eager for what that might entail, despite the fatigue weighing on her.

“Yes. Kicking puppies. Wells. Alizayd… You see? It has been taken care of.”

It takes a moment for the meaning of his words to register, but then she gives a startled laugh. And then she laughs again, truly, flopping back against the pillows.

“Horrible man,” she manages between giggles, twisting her hand in his and tugging, until he’s stretched out by her side again. He grins at her, delighting in her laughter, and her heart gives a little tug in her chest. “Lay with me,” she instructs as firmly as she can through her laughter. “You were right, I am exhausted and I would like a nap with my husband.” 

“Your request is a heavy burden, but one I am willing to bear,” he says solemnly, and she smacks his arm lightly. He laughs, too, and wraps his arms around her, pulling her into him.

“Sleep, Afshin,” she threatens mildly, laying her head on his chest and closing her eyes, “or you will have a very angry Nahid to contend with in a few hours’ time.”

“We would not want that,” he murmurs, faintly, and the last thing she feels before she drifts off is his lips in her hair.


End file.
